


Murtlap and Mistakes

by jmweasley



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmweasley/pseuds/jmweasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius takes his class on a field trip and finds something he lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murtlap and Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the fabulous R/S Career Fest on Livejournal, 2010, under the username moonypearl.
> 
>  
> 
> I tried to stay as true as possible to the geographies of London and Seaford, but some small liberties have been taken. Any character you recognize (being all but one) are sole property of J.K. Rowling, and no is being made whatsoever. In fact, I have lost $7 and a favored button. All copyrights, profits, and such go to Rowling, Scholastic, etc.

  


* * *

**28 August 1981**

"I'm leaving," Remus's voice rasped hoarsely.

The words dropped through the silence of the kitchen like little stones into still water. The late summer heat had wrapped itself around the flat comfortably, stifling noise and slowing motion. Sirius didn't, couldn't, look up from his chipped mug, could only spin it in his hands against the wood of the table. In his periphery he could see Remus's torso rising and falling rapidly under a shabby traveling cloak that hung loosely off his frame, a beaten rucksack clenched in his white knuckles, fingers twitching. The small signs of Remus falling apart and Sirius could read every one of them, always could. A month, a year, a lifetime ago Sirius would have flung himself out of his chair and shaken or tussled Remus until they could both breathe and smile and laugh again, but not anymore, not now. Now Sirius's hands clasped the mug tightly as his eyes bore holes into the table, still unable to look up, still unable, unwilling, to cross the chasm. 

His tea had gone cold twenty minutes ago and he didn't care. Minute details flickered into his brain as Sirius let the silence stretch, languid and swollen, into the corners of the rooms. The bag Remus carried was a present from James at their graduation, ready for a life of adventures and daring-do's, battered now from the War. The low hum of the street filtered in through the window. A drop of sweat made a sickly track down his spine. Remus would only be wearing a ridiculous thing like a cloak in the sticky heat if he really meant it. If he was really going. And what could he, Sirius, say? The litany presented itself fully formed and ten fathoms down in his gullet: No, don't go, please stay, don't leave me here, don't leave me here in a war all alone, say you don't mean it, say it isn't you, please, tell me Peter's wrong and it isn't you. Tell me where you've been going, who you've been seeing, what you're hiding, what you're so afraid of, what you see in those nightmares that wake you up and you won't talk about. Tell me you aren't trying to kill, to murder, to maim and torture and betray betray betray... Tell me he's wrong, tell me I'm wrong, tell me you still love me, you aren't the spy, tell me...

"Right then."

With a loud crack, he was gone.  
 

**15 September 1981**

The weeks had dragged on like a funeral parade in the rain. No one had seen or heard from Remus since he'd slouched his way out of the flat that he and Sirius had been sharing for the three years since Hogwarts. As far as Sirius knew no member of the Order had had any contact with Remus either, from what little he could glean from awkward half questions and insinuations spread cautiously around at meetings, meetings Remus had not been in attendance for. James, Lily, and Peter knew as much as he did, and Sirius never could gather up the courage to ask Dumbledore, who spared him sad glances but never said a word. 

While so much had changed, while so much had already been lost, and while a crater of acid had taken up residence in the space where his heart once was, there were still some things that did not change. The deaths for the Order hadn't stopped, the fear and betrayal and near misses and too lates hadn't stopped. The Death Eaters hadn't stopped, and Voldemort had certainly not stopped trying to get at James, Lily, and Harry. They were still out numbered. They were ambushed and dropping like flies. Sirius felt the small threads of his life thinning, tangling beyond all control. Even Peter, quiet, reliable Peter who had stood by him before and after Moony had left, had started acting strangely. He was and quiet and miles away when they saw him at Order meetings now, ready with an excuse on where he was hurrying off to and a brief sorry I can't stay for that cuppa. Peter's plump, friendly face was lined now, shrunken a little unto itself, and far twitchier that Sirius had ever remembered it being. Just one more thing to add to the list growing rapidly in Sirius's head, of things strange and stranger and not changing. 

Not two weeks had gone by before a heavy pit of uncertainty and horror and _wrong_ had gathered piecemeal into the pit of Sirius's stomach, becoming close companions with his acid heart. If it had been Remus, his brain so helpfully supplied, if Remus was the spy, shouldn't it have stopped? Shouldn't they have succeeded in _something_ by now if Remus, if the spy, was gone? It became something like a sick arithmancy problem in Sirius's head, incorporating the lists and whispers and _feelings_ ; except this formula meant his whole life, his whole goddamn entire life, not some fucking grade or homework assignment. Rearrange the symbols, change the characters and if the answer's the same, does that mean you were wrong?  
 

**8 November 1981**

Two months and two weeks after Remus left and the War ended, not with a bang but with a whimper. Only a week after the Fidelius charm had been cast on a cool fall day-- not on Sirius, the obvious choice, but on Peter, the crafty one, the secret weapon, their sly ace in the hole-- and Peter had broken down to a stony faced circle of Order members in a dingy room above a pub friendly to their cause. A pile of whimpering, simpering man, huddled and wringing his hands, was what had become of Peter. Peter, who had been their brother once, a Marauder, who first figured out the way into the kitchens and the sixth year Ravenclaw girls’ dormitory. Peter, who could eat seven shepherd's pies in one sitting while seemingly blissfully ignorant of the two crisps he'd stuck up his nose, looking far more walrus than rat. Peter, who would bring Moony chocolate frogs the day after the full moon and peppermint imps on the new. Peter, who laughed high and nervously like a girl but who was the hero who first introduced them to David Bowie. 

Sirius understood then, suddenly and coldly between the gasped reasons echoing in the room that could never be reasons, that the Peter he knew was dead. Peter was dead and Remus was gone and Sirius had been _wrong_. Peter had by then ceased his crying, the grating noise gradually replaced by an angry murmur that seemed to travel around the room, gathering speed and volume at each revolution. Dumbledore's face looked ashen in the firelight, Moody looked downright lethal, and Emmaline Vance was a stony pillar of rage. James and Lily stood to Sirius's left, arms wrapped around each other, Lily's face buried in James's shoulder while James gazed steadily at Peter, his face an unreadable mask, though his eyes shone like dried beetles. 

Sirius felt a large swooping thing with feathers enter his chest, brushing away everything else with a fierce need, a need to set things right, a need to find Remus and _explain_ and wring the answers he needed to hear from stupid Moony, _his_ stupid idiotic Moony, and bundle him in his arms and Apparate to some remote spot where they would never be bothered by war or death or lies again. The need had grown from the base of his spine, spilling bile and butterflies into his stomach, clenching around his heart like Moony's stupid hands had clutched his stupid rucksack when he'd left, and how had he left? 

The now familiar question washed over Sirius again. Why had he gone? If their positions had been switched Sirius knew he would have gone shouting his innocence across the rooftops, or at least given Remus a sharp kick for ever thinking he could do such a thing, nevermind that Sirius had been able to think it about Moony. That didn't matter now. Sirius had always had a volatile mind, ready to take action the moment a decision was reached, nevermind reviewing or rehearsing. And what mattered now was finding Moony, bringing him home, grieving for their lost friend Peter, and finally getting a break against Voldemort. 

Sirius caught James's eye, a complicit understanding passing between them, before he cast one last look upon Peter and walked away. James, Lily and Harry would be safe now. Sirius knew it. Peter had told them more than they had known before, even if a small charred chunk of Sirius's soul just chipped away when he thought about how they got that information. Sirius would come back, would have to come back, but now, oh now he had to _go_. Dumbledore would come up with a plan and the Potters would be safe and he, Sirius, would find his Remus and he could finally have his heart back. 

In the end, it took over three years to find Remus.  
 

* * *

**12 January 1985**

Mrs. Pawking's Premiere Primary for Prestidigitation was located in Chelsea, London. It was a large stone building on Cheyne Walk that faced Battersea over the Thames, between the Physic Gardens and Albert Bridge. The converted house was gated with wrought iron and snuggled comfortably between its neighbors. The Muggles of the area barely blinked at the strange occurrences that seemed to frequent the building, so inured were they after suffering so many artists, writers, swingers, and the rest of the motley assortment that had taken residence in the area over the years. It hardly mattered if strange flocks of brightly colored birds could be seen flying around the building to land in the shadowing trees that lined the street, or if those seen coming and going with their children fancied long sweeping cloaks and oddly shaped hats over the mohair, lace, and fetching shell suit fad that had a firm hold over London at the time. After all, while Chelsea was making steady inroads into the land of respectability and affluence, it was still a stretch of London that prided itself on accepting the odd, the creative, the eccentric and the downright mad with open arms and a knowing smirk.

The inside of the building belied its austere exterior. The stately stone face gave no signs of housing a bohemian explosion of color inside, a hodgepodge of squashy velvet furniture, old wood, or older metal sconces dotting the corridors. The classrooms were lit by the sunshine from the windows and torches set high against the walls that would burn with a different color flame, depending on the general mood of the class. Walls were decorated with posters of moving, talking historical figures, numbers that danced the tango until they formed new numbers and, in the younger classes, large letters that shouted out which words they started. Due to the sometimes uncontrollable nature of young magic it was almost routine to step over a green rabbit in the hallway, duck a flying book that refused to be read as it circled the entrance way, or spot a sudden startled shock of rainbow colored hair on one of the teachers. The playground in the back of the building was filled with what the neighbors assumed to be old artists' pieces, reclaimed as children's playthings: a large green stone dragon you could climb over with a sense of adventurer, swings that went not only back and forth but up and over, a tall, purple, glittering tortoise whose shell was filled with white sand and that seemed to be moving very slowly if you looked at it out of the corner of your eye, and a wooden castle construction that stood almost as tall as the house. 

Mrs. Pawking herself (there never had been a Mr. Pawking, but she would swear herself blue in the face that this Ms. tosh had ruined a perfectly good decade thank you very much, and she simply wouldn't hold for such nonsense-- she was very fond of the R in the title after all and hated to lose it for the sake of politeness) was a sight strange enough to draw the eyes of passing motorists and pedestrians. She was a witch of middle years, with a bounce in her step and a glint in her eye that softened her sharp hawk-like features. She wasn't tall, rather, a slight woman with flyaway blue hair whose volume in speaking and laughing made her seem three times her size. Add to that a penchant for wrapping herself in as many gauzy layers as she possibly could, cinched loosely with an oversized, low-hanging belt that featured a badger shaped buckle, and purple boots she often gave the appearance of some a wildly dyed house sparrow caught in a wind storm. These attributes rolled together into one woman, along with a penchant for magically producing candy and small neon mice from her many pockets, of course only inspired the children to love her all the more.

Over the years Mrs. Pawking's school had garnered a reputation for being every bit as eccentric as the Headmistress herself, even in the Wizarding world. The school had been operating and priding itself on its reputation for primary magical schooling for the past thirty years, claiming proudly in its bright periwinkle blue brochures to: _**Prepare your young witch or wizard for the adventure of their lives! Hogwarts will never know what hit it when your tot arrives!**_ Of course the children weren't allowed to use magic; even the Ministry couldn't ignore such bending of the rules, but Mrs. Pawking had decided one early summer day all those years ago there was no reason not to educate children about the world they were entering into-- give them a leg up and expose them to the wonders that were surely all around them. The curriculum was taught by a rotating staff of wizards and witches, each bringing their specialty to the pupils for a few days a week or more intensive periods depending on what they felt like teaching. Mrs. Pawking never had taken to the idea of such silly things like timelines or detailed curricula or approved lesson plans or anything else one would normally expect from a school. She preferred to select her teachers for what they wanted to teach and why, judging them with alacrity on their intent and enthusiasm on the subject, the glint in their eye when they gave their proposals and how wildly they waved with hands with each explanation. Once approved would let them loose on her brood, expanding their nascent little magical minds while stuffing things like math and grammar into any spare moment. The overall effect was one of joyful chaos and a surprisingly well-versed student body. 

The children were aged 5 to 10, some surprisingly from Muggle families (who had caused _odd_ things to happen to their parents' bafflement) and the others from Wizarding families, regardless of whether they had to date shown any magical ability. Squibs, Mrs. Pawking reasoned, deserved a right to know about their world as much as anyone, and she welcomed them all. Each grade was given its own room, though she would cackle loudly when she discovered students milling about in each other’s classes, encouraging them to build connections and help their peers. It was, to Mrs. Pawking's mind, exactly the sort of nonsense she wanted and thought best to prepare them for the melee that Hogwarts had been for her in her own school years. Helga Hufflepuff herself couldn't have created a more welcoming school. 

This was where Sirius found himself three years after Peter's confession, drawn after the war to its color and laughter like a moth to a strange orange-green flickering flame. Three years after the end of the war, three years of long fruitless searches and frustrating dead ends with still no Moony, and Sirius found himself with an wintry afternoon's appointment with Mrs. Pawking to explain what he'd like to do.

"I want to teach them about magical creatures," Sirius explained in a rush after they had exchanged pleasantries, sitting forward in his purple chintz chair. "Not the big scary ones obviously," he continued, throwing his arms wide to give their general dimension hands curving slightly into claws, "But the little ones at least, give them a taste for it." His hands now shaped the air in front of him to be roughly the size of a small cat.

"So you're telling me that Sirius Black, whose name is not unknown to the Wizarding world by now," Mrs. Pawking returned slowly, her eyes glinting more sharply than usual, "wants to come to my school to teach small children about cute furry animals?"

A moment of awkward silence filled the room, Sirius at a loss to explain it any better than that, before Mrs. Pawking laughed loudly and stood. "Well done then, I say! Welcome aboard Mr. Black. Can you start next Monday? How about with the first years then, what do you say?"

Sirius got to his feet as well and shook her outstretched hand. "Monday it is then," he said his mouth splitting into a grin.  
 

**3 April 1985**

Three months later and the year had passed remarkably well, as far as Sirius was concerned. The violence had died down, as had the celebratory mood that had swept over the Wizarding world, and Sirius was glad for the quiet. A tentative agreement towards normalcy had been reached, unspoken it seemed, and the world was doing its best to get back to business as usual.

Business as usual today included a field trip, the latest in a long line, with Sirius and the first years. They were remarkably well contained for a group of seven 5 year olds, thrilled enough to be distracted by Sirius's tales of kneazles in the pantry and imps that played jokes in marshes. Today would be their farthest trip abroad, down south to a little coastal town called Seaford in East Surrey. Mrs. Pawking had arranged this one, claiming the existence of an excellent murtlap breeding facility along the coast. The children were now well versed enough that Sirius agreed they'd be able to handle a few rat-like creatures that happened to have sea anemones growing out their backs. They were to take the Knight Bus down this morning to meet the caretaker at the local pub, who would then walk them down to the breeding grounds and explain the facility and the creatures to them.

If Sirius ever felt he had atoned for past wrongs done at school, it was during the experience of taking a gaggle of children on an hour's ride on the Knight Bus. Surely he hadn't been this demonic as a child. They exited the bus disheveled and loud, the children chattering away like ducklings, and Sirius was a shaky swaying man. They stood at the bottom of a short shrubbery-edged staircase that led to a pub called, of all things, the Golden Galleon. Sirius pulled his leather jacket closer around him and shook his head slightly to himself. If the magical population of the town was thinking of hiding themselves from Muggle view, they certainly weren't making much of an actual effort towards it.

He'd heard of Seaford before, Seaf'd as it was called by the locals according to Mrs. Pawking, but never had the occasion to visit before today. As was evidenced by the pub rising merrily above them against the cloud dotted sky, it was an odd mix of Muggle and magic, much like Chelsea though a tad quieter about its more eccentric qualities. According to rumor an apothecary was hidden behind a sandwiched-in chemists on the High Street and a wizarding robe shop, Stitch and Flick's, held residence in a small house out past the factories.

The pub the Knight Bus had deposited them in front of was set outside the city limits and afforded any visitor a long, spectacular view of the downs leading into Seaford. It was much like any British coastal town with long rolling hills leading down to the sea, sparsely dotted with white stone houses hunkered down against the wind among wild green weeds. Smoke plumed merrily from most of the chimneys, and Sirius could smell something warm and baking from the pub behind them on the crisp chill breeze. He did a quick head count to make sure all the wee beasties were present and accounted for and drew his pocket watch from his jacket and loosened the knot of his necktie. It was his small concession to responsibility in this new role he'd carved for himself: black leather jacket, black boots, white Oxford and a black tie would never go out of style as far as he was concerned, and allowed him to pass as a respectable teacher while still being cool, in his mind at least, and even James had never contradicted him on the point.

It was ten minutes to eleven, the appointed hour when the caretaker would meet them. Sirius cast a glance back towards the pub but saw no one waiting. He cast his gaze then out across the downs, a small dot approaching along the path, and he allowed himself a moment of speculation while the children scampered up and down the staircase, playing a rousing game they had invented just moments before. What kind of wizard would breed Murtlaps of all things? Sirius imagined a wizened, gruff old man, reeking strongly of seaweed and with yellow-stained fingers, or perhaps a tiny woman, rat-like herself who had named all the Murtlaps after characters from her afternoon stories, though that line of thinking brought him too close to the memory of Peter for comfort. 

The dot coming along the path was close enough now to distinguish itself as human shaped, wrapped in a grey robe against the wind and limping slightly. This must be the caretaker, Sirius thought, seeing no one else on the downs nor coming from the pub. He called the children to him as the figure, recognizable now as a man, tall and thin under the cloak, neared the pub. Features slowly became more distinguishable as the man drew nearer: wind-tousled brown hair streaked liberally with grey, robe patched at the elbows and fraying along the hem, coarse brown pants and a worn green shirt, a face lined with scars and age... 

Sirius could actually feel his heart stop dead in his chest before resuming a rapid tattoo.

Remus. It was Remus. Remus was here, walking towards them, in the middle of the bloody Seaford hills, and Remus was _here_. Surely, absolutely _surely_ beyond a doubt his mind must be playing games with him. After years of searching, of checking all the likely places, then the unlikely places, then the absolutely ridiculous places... after Apparating back and forth to check on James, Lily, and Harry and help with the end of the war efforts, after years of longing and loneliness and a deep wallowing pit growing inside him, after years of giving up while still looking, and Remus was _here_ in bloody fucking Seaford. 

Shock was the only thing that kept Sirius immobile as Remus reached them. The children had gathered in front of him in an excited semi-circle, giggling amonst themselves and barely containing the excitement that came at that age with anything new. Sirius stood still as a statue as Remus reached their group, a small smile and a greeting ready for the children as he drew level with them. But then his gaze travelled upwards to meet Sirius's and for a moment the smile on Remus's face fell abruptly, washing over in a blank stare before a similar smile-- but oh, Sirius still knew where to look for the difference, in the corners, at the edges, in between-- reapplied itself to his face. Typical Moony. One second to read him then the walls were back before you even knew what it was you saw.

"Well, you must be from Mrs. Pawking's then; am I right?" Remus asked the class, eyes flickering again briefly to Sirius. That was Remus's voice, Sirius's brain so helpfully supplied him. Remus's voice still scratchy and warm like a sweater and Sirius hadn't heard it in so, so long. The children chorused variations of "Yes" back at him in their high little voices as Remus turned his smiling mask to them fully. 

"I hope I haven't kept you long," Remus continued, addressing Sirius with a voice terribly even and devoid of any emotion but polite inquiry. "I thought maybe we could go see the Murtlaps then head back for some lunch. At least, that's what Mrs. Pawking and I discussed in our letters." He sounded unsure now, almost as if he thought Sirius would hex him on the spot or simply turn and run. Sirius's head bobbed in jerky agreement, words stuck like sand in his throat.

He watched as Remus turned and started back down the dirt road, the cluster of children circling around him and asking questions unrestrainedly. Sirius had told them just enough about Murtlaps on the Knight Bus to pique their interest, and the novelty of a rat with a fishy animal on its back (which was as specific as Sirius had gotten) had obviously not worn off yet. Under normal circumstances he knew leading a group like this anywhere in an organized fashion could be as difficult as herding doxies jumped up on coffee, but the promise of further stories was enough for now to keep them manageable. Sirius brought up the rear and tried as hard as he could to catch Remus's words under the whistling roar of the constant sea breeze. The road wound itself gently against the downs, crooked stiles edging the path, grasses and small flowers bending with the wind. They passed a few more of the cozy looking village houses, though the road to sea was mainly uninhabited and rather awe-inspiring, if Sirius had really had the wherewithal to notice at the time.

"So, let's take a little time to introduce ourselves and talk about what we're going to see today, yes?" Remus asked the group scampering around him, looking for all the world like a shabby Pied Piper. "My name is Remus Lupin, and I take care of the Murtlaps we have down by the sea, making sure they're well fed and getting along." 

Sirius could immediately appreciate that this was Remus's teaching voice. Hadn't he and James made fun of him often enough for it in school as he was explaining some new concept or spell to Peter, or helping along the wee firsties once he was made prefect? It was calm and sedate but inviting enough to attract the attention of the small horde-- simple enough for a five year old to follow yet not condescending. Sirius couldn't take his eyes off him, couldn't help but review and compare and see how the years had treated Remus. Still tall, as thin as he had ever been in the War, though he still carried himself with that sedately unmistakable air. The grey that had started to seep into the golden brown hairs was now fighting valiantly where once it had been timid about aging Remus, and the scars. The scars were more, too much more, than Sirius was expecting. He had known to expect more, he did. Years of transformations had stripped him of any romantic notions he may have ever held about werewolves. This was more than Sirius was expecting even then, however. Long tendril shaped claw and teeth marks, intersecting old faded white scar tissue with brighter, redder, less easily forgotten marks, but marks Sirius would never know the story behind without asking. While the map that had made up Moony in his adolescence may have closely resembled some small country town-- small lanes, a big river taking prominence perhaps, smaller crosshatches here and there-- the Remus of now could almost be a booming metropolis.

"Why don't you tell me all your names?" Remus asked, breaking Sirius out of his cataloging. They instantly responded: Aiden, Sinjin, Amelia, Poesy, Eleanor, Linus, and Malcolm all piped up their names like the good students they were, and Sirius allowed himself a brief moment of pride. Even if he himself had as yet been unable to open his mouth and say anything remotely intelligible, the kids were on their best behavior, which must surely show Remus that Sirius wasn't absolute shit at this. That he still cared if Remus approved of him was really not so shocking. Not to a man who had spent most of his childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood trying to get Remus to give him that small smile of approval. Even in the last dark days, even when Sirius had thought the worst of him, he never could resist impressing Remus Lupin.  
 

The walk seemed shorter than Sirius had anticipated, though he was well aware that time had ceased flowing as it should the minute he'd recognized Remus. It seemed to be coming at him in great dollops, sensory overload taking him in a minute then slowly creeping by while his insides writhed with frustration. Surely this was torture, Sirius reasoned, to be so close to Remus and yet so far. During the time Remus continued explaining to them what Murtlaps were, what he did at the breeding ground, and why. Sirius found himself fascinated despite the whirlwind that had currently taken residence in his head. 

Murtlaps, according to Remus, were small rodents that looked very much like water voles or river rats, with the exception of the bright yellow sea anemones that grew out their backs. They were apparently happiest by the sea, though you could find them occasionally near lakes and slow moving rivers inland. He explained to the class, throwing small careful glances Sirius's way still, that his job was to look after the Murtlaps, make sure they got enough food if they couldn't fend for themselves, and harvest the sloughed anemones that grew out the Murtlaps backs to supply potioneers and apothecaries. Sirius was mildly relived to hear that no immediate pickling was involved, having imagined all sorts of wild scenarios for extracting Murtlap liquid.

Sirius was familiar with Essence of Murtlap from Hogwarts, familiar with it because of Remus actually, and suddenly it wasn't quite so strange to find Remus breeding Murtlaps, not if he thought it would be helping someone else in any way. Essence of Murtlap was a yellow liquid made from the strained and pickled juices of the anemones that grew on the Murtlaps' backs and was used to soothe and heal all manner of cuts and bruises. It was also said to help one resist curses and jinxes, part old wives' tale, part true, which made it especially good at healing werewolf wounds and long ago Sirius himself had helped apply it to Remus after the moons more times than he could count. 

The air got sharper and cooler as they finally reached the shoreline. White cliffs rose impressively above them, the yellow grasses of the downs ended in fine yellow sand dotted with large white rocks, fallen from the cliffs above. A lighthouse jutted proudly out at sea and a small, weather beaten, wooden shack stood halfway between the cliffs and the sea. Close by was a low-fenced paddock that extended from the sand several meters out to sea. Sirius felt the curious push/pull sensation of passing through wards as they neared the paddock and tried to catch Remus's eye.

"Anti-Muggle," Remus said simply, correctly deciphering Sirius's raised eyebrow. "There are tourists enough in the area, though they don't generally come out this way." That was the third thing Remus had said to Sirius in as many years, Sirius realized. He wondered how long he'd keep counting, hungrily hoarding sentences and glances like a miser, still unsure of how this absurdly surreal day would end.

He took a deep gulping breath of the tangy air, turned to the sea, and felt himself settle somewhat. No one could resist such a landscape, he realized, and tried to use its stark beauty to bring some calm to the storm gathering ferocity inside him. So Remus was here. And now Sirius was here. And while Remus may be just fine pretending he and Sirius had never met before, hadn't grown together or loved each other or fucked or fought or betrayed together, hadn't run under moonlit skies together and woken in the morning sun together, well, Sirius wasn't all right with that. The only thing stopping him now from grabbing Remus around the collar and wringing those long awaited for answers from him was his class, now climbing eagerly over the rocks and leaning over the low fence to catch a glimpse of the Murtlaps. It was a familiar pattern. Remus distanced from the world, as if showing no response could actually stop the pain, and Sirius railing against the silence of it all, fully aware of the futility and ready instead to force his reaction on the world that had started the fight in the first place.

That was the old Sirius though, or rather, the young Sirius. The Sirius at school, the Sirius of just a few years ago even, would have spontaneously combusted by now. He would have acted without waiting, without thinking, doing what came first to his brain and hoping it panned out alright in the end just so long as the score was even. Sirius wasn't sure that version of him existed still, not after these past years, though he could feel the temptation for actionactionnownownow still. He'd learned caution during the war however, learned patience in his searches in lands faraway and near, and could not say, even to himself, that some small kernel of anger and resentment wasn't burning in his stomach right now to see Remus alive, reasonably well, and an hour's damn ride away, unable to show whether he was happy to see Sirius again or not.

Well, that was just fine. Sirius could play this game. He would wait, not like he hadn't been waiting for three years already; what was one more day? He would wait and then he would get his answers and the children would learn about Murtlaps and their brains would be enriched and he was sure it would be one of the strangest days of his entire life. But he could wait. He had the sinking feeling that James, often the voice of reason now after the war and Remus's departure, would heartily approve of his plan.

Ignoring Remus completely now, sure of his plan of action and the depth of his patience, Sirius approached the paddock casually only to jump back, startled and gaping.

"Good God, what is that thing?" he blurted loudly, two minute old plan of action immediately thrown out the window when faced with one of the ugliest animals he'd ever seen. 

"That? Pregnant Murtlap," Remus explained, a hint of dry humor seeping through as he also approached the paddock, still a healthy distance from Sirius. "Certainly not the most charming animal I know, but rather the whole point of the place." 

The children had gathered in between the two men at Sirius's outburst and were now looking back and forth between Remus, Sirius, and the Murtlap with a mix of curiosity, excitement, and disgust, the latter especially evident on the faces of the girls. 

On the yellow sand before them was truly one of the ghastliest rodents Sirius had ever seen, Peter the Rat included. Its brown furry body was the size of a normal Murtlap, with the exception of its stomach which protruded almost obscelenely and scraped a trail in the sand as it moved. Her fur was mottled, patchy, even shedding in tufts around her belly from sand friction and probably simple swelling, Sirius assumed. Normal Murtlap anemones were bright yellow, squashy little things that seemed to wave gently as if still in sea water. This one, however, was a deep ochre, shriveling at the tips, and detaching from her back along the edges to sway pathetically as she lumbered along in the sand. Sirius wondered briefly if Lily, should James ever get her up the duff again, would understand the reference if Sirius called her a Murtlap, and which of her famous revenge jinxes she'd pick if she did. 

"Having babies takes a lot of out the mother," Remus explained in his Professor Voice to the class. The girls squealed and jumped back past Sirius as the Murtlap dragged herself and her belly forward, while the boys impressed and disgusted, pressing forward against the fence. Sirius watched Remus watch the Murtlap however, ignoring the pregnant creature now. Remus's face could be called wistful, even pitying, as he continued his explanation of the toll it took on the mother Murtlaps, how even their anemones eventually fell off, their small bodies giving up the growth to use its resources on the young growing inside them. Sirius wondered if Remus, always so quick to sympathize with creatures in distress or maligned against, related to a pregnant rodent on some level, and bit back an absurd, hysterical laugh.

* * *

  
 

In the end it had been as strange a day as Sirius knew it would be. The class had continued their tour of the small breeding facility, watching the Murtlaps scamper in the surf happily, restraining the boys from poking the pregnant ones with driftwood, and letting the small lessons dissolve into games easily as their attention waned. Sirius and Remus had danced around each other, using the children as a social buffer, never truly needing to address one another directly. Sirius was burning now with impatience, the game longer and much harder than he was anticipating.

The sun had begun its descent by the time the group had finished with the Murtlaps and headed back to the pub. The Golden Galleon seemed especially warm and inviting after the crisp spring sea air and Sirius was glad of the difference. No sooner had they headed for an empty table but Sirius heard the familiar, booming laughter of Mrs. Pawking and turned to survey the room, surprised. He spotted her leaning against the bar, chatting animatedly to the grizzled bartender and young bar maid, apparently deep in a story that required a lot of swinging arm movements Sirius tried very hard not to compare with birds wings flapping.

"Ah, there you are Mr. Black!" She exclaimed, breaking off her story abruptly and joining them with more speed than Sirius was expecting. Although he had known her for several months she did still have that knack of putting one completely off one's guard. "Thought I'd nip down, see how the day went, then perhaps escort our favorite little demons back to the school," Mrs. Pawking explained in her usual rush of information. "Professor Thurstberry apparently had an art lesson with them that I've completed overlooked, you know how it is, but I figured that our wee heroes have braved the nefarious Murtlaps," she shot a wink to the children and made a grand, sword waving motion before continuing, "It's time to conquer the next adventure! Namely paint and many, many sheets of paper, but it's always nice to have something to conquer.

"I do hope you boys have finished your lesson?" Her sharp, bird-like gaze flickered between Remus and Sirius, both of whom nodded mutely, swept away in the miniature tidal wave. "Excellent, excellent. I'm glad we've all had such a good learning day, yes? Time perhaps for some sandwiches before Professor Thurstberry?" She had turned to the children who-- cold, hungry, and thoroughly bored with Murtlaps as any good five year old would be-- seemed eager to return and nodded eagerly. 

Sirius watched as Mrs. Pawking watched him and Remus while the children gathered their jackets and made their joyful shuffling way to the fireplace the barkeep kept lit in one of the back rooms for those who knew how to use it. Something wasn't right. Mrs. Pawking, while an enthusiastic and mildly insane Headmistress, had never accompanied them on any of their previous outings, certainly never come to collect the children and, he noticed, _not_ himself, at least not the way he'd been following Mrs. Pawking's chatter. A mismatched feeling, like cold water being poured against sunburnt shoulders, crept over him and added to the general chaos even Sirius could admit he embodied right now. Perhaps finding Remus, here in Seaford still breeding sodding rats, had less to do with providence that Sirius had originally accepted. How would she have known, though? While Sirius and Remus had never hidden their relationship, they had never exactly flaunted it either, keeping the information between themselves and a trusted few. When the world was falling down around it hardly helped to give the opposing side further ammunition.

"Mr. and Mrs. Potter send their regards by the way," she called over her shoulder as they neared the end of the room, and Sirius saw Remus flinch out of the corner of his eye. "Had a lovely tea with them the other day, and they're thinking about putting little Harry into the school do you know, who can blame them?" She said this without arrogance, but with the simplicity that comes from knowing that the thing you love doing is a good one. "Had quite the chat, seeing as how I've managed to scoop up one of their best mates as one of my favorite teachers. Lovely couple. Who knew we would have so many acquaintances in common?

"Well, I'll leave you two chaps to it then. Come along my children! Back to learning and concrete, say thank you and farewell to Mr Lupin!" Mrs. Pawking called over her shoulder as they neared the end of the room, and with that she started herded the last of the class through the door, looking for all intents and purposes like a psychedlic mother hen, and left Sirius alone with Remus for the first time in such a very long time.

The quiet after the hurricane that was one mad witch and seven school children swept gently through the bar, and left Sirius feeling a little bereft and extremely awkward. 

"Tea?" he offered with a shrug of his shoulders and a gesture to a quiet corner table past the bar. Tea was ever the great equalizer of men and all awkward situations. 

He steeled himself to his purpose as they crossed to the table however, and gave himself a great mental shake. He was still here, Remus was still here (a fact he had not yet tired of repeating to himself), and so there was still a chance. He was even gamely carrying on with his cool, elusive, waiting trick, though he had no measure of success for it whatsoever. Unless you counted (which Sirius did) how many times Remus shot covert looks at Sirius when he thought he wasn't looking (which he was), and even then Sirius wasn't sure if eighteen was a winning number or not.

"So," Sirius began lamely, at an utter loss on how to continue now that they were seated and the business of seating and busying themselves with tea brought over by the barmaid. The words seemed too many, too awkward, and Remus seemed as shuttered and far away as ever.

"You could have gone back with them," Remus offered hesitantly as the silence stretched on a moment too long. His gaze travelled between the door, his cup of tea, and a spot just past Sirius's left ear in a nervous circle. "I mean, the tea here isn't all that--"

"Remus," Sirius bit out sharply, "I'm not bloody leaving now, so just stop."

A small flicker registered on Remus's face, a slight tightening around the eyes, and Sirius had the comfort of familiarity slip around him. This game, the game of cracking Remus's facades and masks, was an old one, and one Sirius was as familiar with as waiting. 

"Stop what?" Remus took a swallow of tea before rejoining. "It's been three years. What are you still doing here? You can't possibly tell me it's for the Murtlaps and biscuits," he said, an edge of defense in his voice.

"What am I doing here? What-- what am _I_ doing here?" Sirius could feel the wave of anger and old fear and resentments rebuilding in him, strongly and surely now, and suddenly the waiting game could go to hell. "Three years, Remus! Three fucking years and you've been _here_ helping rats make babies?"

"Now wait--"

"No, tell me! You walk out, never to be seen or heard from in three years thank you, and now you'd like to shunt me off back to London after a cuppa? Not even after. Do you have any idea how long I've been looking for you?"

"Yes, because that's so obviously the course of action I thought you would take," Remus's words now positively dripped with sarcasm. "Hunting down is not the same as looking for, Sirius. Why would I have assumed any different?" Sirius could have slapped him for his tone right there and thought so very little of it, he was that mad and frustrated. And that infuriating, superior, Oh So Right Remus tone was his least favorite thing Remus used in the long list Sirius had tallied of things Remus did to make his point or get his way.

"Fuck you," Sirius said tightly, the jibe about his searches too sharp for Remus to know. "You weren't there. You weren't there for Peter, for the end, for everything. You left. Did you even care when you heard? They almost died, you know. They could have, if Peter hadn't been the right sort of coward in the end. Did you even fucking care? Or did you just use that issue of the Prophet to clean up after the Murtlaps maybe? Where did you go, Remus? Tell me."

"It doesn't matter! Gods Sirius, it doesn't matter. If you thought me capable of killing my best friends why on earth would I imagine you'd want me to come back again?"

Even the sounds of the pub that eddied around their quiet corner where they sat seemed to quiet, waiting with sharp inhale for what was to come next. They sat tense and leaning towards each other, voices rising and intense. Remus glared at him across the table, eyes bright and burning. This was fighting Remus, back against the wall Remus, the Moony you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley if you'd done something to him. Sirius had missed this, even as he let his anger and sadness burn through him. He had missed this Remus as well. Had missed fighting with him, knowing that Remus's whole attention was on him and what he was saying.

Sirius watched Remus take a sip of tea with shaking hands, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly as he took a hearty swallow. Remus slumped forward, all the fight leaving him at once, and he set his cup down with a small thunk.

"It was the werewolves," Remus said quietly, and he rested his forehead in one long, lean hand. "I was with the werewolves, in the camps and in the forests, wherever they gathered really. I was the only one who could. Dumbledore said I could reach out to my own kind like nobody else, certainly no one else in the Order, and how could I not respond to that, Sirius? Being told that here, these are your brethren, go forth. Being told that you're the only one that can talk to them on any level that may, just _may_ , stop them from killing people I love?" Sirius opened his mouth, all the old arguments about Remus being a creature or a human and the idiocy of even having that fight ready to spill from his lips, all the old indignation for what Remus went through every day ready to flare and fight and stand out against the darkness, but Remus merely held up the hand that had been holding his head and continued. 

"No, he was right. And it wasn't just them, Sirius. Those missions I went on-- Dumbledore liked to call them 'missions of good will,' outreach to creatures like myself whom Voldemort was surely already dropping poison into their ears. His connections then... everywhere I went I was one step behind. Everywhere I went and everyone I met... the Death Eaters had already been, just one step ahead of me and most of the time it was too late. Like convincing them to join a side still ready to call them creatures, to treat them like beasts and fugitives and killers, was going to be easy from the beginning."

It was as if a dam had been broken after keeping silent all these years, and Remus spoke as a man who couldn't help himself. Sirius sat silent and entranced.

"And I couldn't _tell you_ ," Remus's voice fairly broke on this, like this was the point that stung after so many years, not the constant terrible failures or delving deep into dark creature encampments. Sirius sat on his hands to remind himself to keep quiet and still while Moony purged his demons. "And I knew, _knew_ what it was doing to you, to us, and I couldn't _do_ anything. Dumbledore made me promise, even when we knew there was a spy, even if I knew you thought it was me I still couldn't tell you, couldn't answer to where I've been or what I've been doing. I just had to sit there and not say anything and watch as we..." Here Remus trailed off, his eyes sad and fixed on the wood grain of the table.

"I'm sorry," Remus said simply, raising his eyes to Sirius and shrugging helplessly. "I thought what I was doing was for the best. And when the War ended, well... I thought it might be best to just settle down to a job that'll keep it," Remus said with a sardonic twist of his lips. "It had been so long, I didn't know how..."

"I thought  you were the spy,"  Sirius said suddenly, like a confession surprised out of him, and Remus let out a small, desolate noise from the back of his throat. It hurt Sirius to say those words out loud, to admit to how he'd lost sight of Remus, his Remus, those years ago. He wasn't sure now it wasn't the right kind of hurt, the kind they needed after all this time, and he had to continue. "I didn't know where you were, you were always gone, always, and you would never say and everyone just kept dying. Peter, he..." Sirius didn't know how to go on now, more ashamed in that moment to admit his past weaknesses than he was glad to let go of a burden he'd held onto for so long. "All the time, all he did was whisper about how it might be you. That there was a spy, we didn't know who, could have been anyone and we didn't know where you were, that he had seen you with this dodgy person or with that. I don't know if he tried it with James, but judging by how often he tried it with me I wouldn't be surprised. Figured he must have worked the same over on you. Never worked on Lily, though," he said, feeling that particular guilt of that wash over him anew. "Even after you'd left she said something wasn't right. Smart woman, that Lily."

The silence that followed as each chased their own thoughts back through time and distance was not uncomfortable, though it could be called still. There seemed to be so many silences around Remus again now, waiting in his pockets, lurking in the corners and under the cutlery. Once Sirius could have read each one from across the room, from the way Remus twitched his pen this way or that, or by the depth of the little line between his brows, and would jostle, carouse, entice Remus out of them. Sirius didn't know how to proceed now, all their demons and memories exorcised, pooling on the table between them. This last step he'd imagined most while searching for Moony, holing up in dirty hostels and dirtier Wizarding inns, never fully living out the end of the imagined melodrama. After all the confessions and emotionally wrought histories would be over and then... what? Sirius would sweep him off his feet and they would run away into the sunset and Moony would be home. Home to make fun of Prongs' cooking, teach Harry disgusting things like Latin and opera, bring Lily flowers like the swot he'd still be, bundle Sirius into their bed and promise him he'd never leave again, never make Sirius go looking for him again, never let Sirius give up on him, on them, again. Since Moony would be home, all these things could be true. Those were the vague dreams of a lost and disconsolate man however, not a guide for the actuality. Sirius had often wondered, usually after months of being on the road at one time, smelly and tired from camping out so often and weeks behind his last good shower, what would happen when-- always when, not if-- he did find Remus, and he wished sorely he'd thought of a more concrete plan before.

"I went to Africa," he offered into the silence.

"What?"

"Africa. You know, big country, bit south a ways, lots of sun. Too much sand. I went there, Africa, looking for you."

"You-- you went to Africa?"

"Yes."

"Africa."

"Yes, Africa."

"...Africa?"

"Yes. Africa."

"I've never been to Africa."

"Yes, well, I figured that out. Only took me two months to figure that one out on my own."

"Did you wear a safari hat?"

"Did I-- what? No. No!"

Remus snorted. Then Remus snorted again. To Sirius's surprise these were quickly followed by a low, throaty chuffing, which in its turn bloomed into a full bellied laugh that Sirius could feel himself helplessly falling into and joining in. Moony was here, he was here, and they were laughing. Together. Granted, by this point Sirius rather figured that they were laughing at him, but even that could not diminish the shine the world had suddenly taken on.

"Moony," Sirius said after they had contained themselves, the name falling easily from his lips. The nervous tension had left the table as their laughter died down. "Come back with me. Come home."

"Sirius," Remus replied, and Sirius could already hear the trepidation in his voice, could already see the little cogs turning in Remus's brain to supply him with all those reasonable excuses for not coming back. "I don't think that's allowed. It can't be that easy, I can't just..."

"Easy!" Sirius scoffed, ready to hold onto this brighter world where even past troubles seemed light and inconsequential. "You're talking to a man who's done three world tours just to find some mangy Murtlap breeder; don't talk to me about easy." He had meant it as a joke, but if Remus's falling face was anything to judge by, he wasn't quite ready for that yet. "Remus," he continued, sobering. "Come back with me. This is ridiculous. The War's over. This," he waved his hands, encompassing everything with a small motion, "this isn't what we wanted. I miss you. I need you. James, Lily, and Harry miss you. I wasn't just looking for you Remus, I was looking for our family. And it's time to go home."   

Remus clasped his hands tightly, eyes suspiciously bright, and Sirius traced several deep breaths by the rise and fall of his chest before he opened his mouth to respond, a grin rapidly growing on his face. 

"Right then."

  



End file.
